


Too Fast For Love

by Catharrington



Series: Harringrove Week of Love 2020 [5]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Billy Hargrove is The American, First Time, Harringrove Week of Love 2020, Isolated Together, M/M, Post Season 3, Protective Steve Harrington, Slight torture, second time i brainwashed billy and mama it wont be the last
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23022214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catharrington/pseuds/Catharrington
Summary: Billy Hargrove is dead. This man is a nameless soldier. A diligent worker bee who gets his job done and doesn’t back talk. This man doesn’t even know today’s a holiday. Billy Hargrove is dead. This man isn’t Billy Hargrove. He can’t be. Could he?
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Harringrove Week of Love 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654594
Comments: 3
Kudos: 63
Collections: Harringrove Week of Love





	Too Fast For Love

**Author's Note:**

> this is day 5 prompt isolated together and first time for hwol. These were originally on my tumblr before i created this account. All are stand alone plots and do not have to be read in any order or together even.  
> thank thank thank you so much for reading!!!! :)

Hargrove didn’t know what the date today was. He didn’t know the red and pink cardboard trinkets that was being passed with hurried hands and soft words. He didn’t know the confessions of adoration painting the calm sky a rainbow of love. He didn’t know what the date today was.

Hargrove only knew it was a Friday, and there was a prisoner in cell S8 that needed to be loosened up.

A strong hand landed on his shoulder in a painful way. Looking up he saw his General. The man was a storm just looking to ruin people with his thunder. Hargrove knew the pain of that hand on his skin so well he didn’t even flinch. Not much made Hargrove finch anymore.

His General leaned down to whisper something in the Mother language. Hargrove was slow and didn’t understand fully, but he picked up on the inclusion of what ever means necessary. That made the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He kept his eyes trained hard on the cement floor of the hallway, knowing he would get into trouble if he made eye contact without permission. So Hargrove just listened as best he could to the orders given to him.

Without moving his hand from the tight grip on Hargrove’s shoulder, his General all but lead him by his shoulder pads down the hall way and to the locked cell S8. His General’s fingers were thin probes into the heavy fabric. He leaned down again to rush more orders. Sounded vaguely like save some for the rest of us. Then his grip was a short clap and he walked away.

Hargrove stood in front of the door like he had done a hundred times because he didn’t know the date.

The door creaked open slowly, boots echoed as they walked inside, and the fluorescent lighting from one bare strip flashed as if it knew something was coming. Hargrove let the door fall closed behind him so he didn’t have to take his eyes off the prisoner in the middle of the room. The table that was usually reserved for the center was pushed against a wall. Hanging where that table should be was a tall, thin, brown haired boy. A long, long line of chain pooled a little at the floor and then snaked up his lean body to where his arms were locked securely into metal rings drilled into the ceiling. It was all very savage, but that’s how His General liked it.

The boy was knocked out cold. His head fell to one side and he was soft almost in the way his messy long hair fell. Hargrove walked into the room stiffly.

Any means necessary rang in his cold ears. That was usually not reserved for him. Usually he heard that from other guards, the few who would actually speak with him, and he only recently let it click what that meant. Hargrove’s few jobs were spelled out for him. Carved almost into his skin so he made sure to not forget it. Giving him an open invitation like any means necessary was strange. But Hargrove could feel it in his bones how pleasant it would be to get some relief from these concrete confines if just for a few minutes. An escape into warm skin and chocolate hair.

Something kicked inside of Hargrove then, a frame of yellow and the musk of steam flashed behind his eyes only for a moment.

Waking towards the boy in the middle of the room was intoxicating. His boots kept ringing with each step so loudly it’s a shame it didn’t wake him up. But the boy still slept. So Hargrove felt along the table top at the instruments left in the tray. They were cleaned and must have been placed here just for him. Hargrove let his fingers rest on a crooked pair of scissors at the very end of the tray. These would work well.

Stepping back to the boy he let one hand lift into that mess of brown so he could pull his head back. The boys face was just as pretty as his hair. Milk colored pale skin flushed with red marks over his temple and cheek where he’d been struck. His throat was long and just as soft with moles dotting his skin like stars in the night sky leading down into his sweater collar. When the boy swallowed thickly it was remarkable. Hargrove had loosened information out of dozens of people, hundreds maybe, not one was like this.

Hargrove let his fingers remain in that soft, warm hair, while his other hand dragged the scissors down the boys sweater. Now from that motion he did begin to wake up, letting out a soft groan of discomfort and stirring in his chains. They jingled loudly as the boy snapped awake.

“Wha- what?” He gasped, darting his eyes around the room, “stop it! Stop it!” He started to say but his words stopped in his throat as quickly as they came when his eyes finally met Hargrove’s own.

“Billy?” The name came from his lips and across Hargrove’s face like a comet streaking the sky brilliant and on fire.

Hargrove had to steady himself, remind himself of the whip with his name on it if he didn’t do his job.

He asked the boy for his name in the Mother language and then again in crystal clear English. “Tell me your name.” The boy could only look on with his mouth hanging open slightly. “Is your name Billy?”

The boy laughed at that. Actually laughed. “My name? My name... my name is not Billy,” he sputtered about with his words. “Your name is Billy.”

Hargrove shoved the top of his scissors into soft belly not just to shut the boy up but to distract his thoughts from another flash of yellow lights in a yellow room. His name was not Billy. He didn’t have a first name. He was simply Hargrove and did exactly what His General ordered him to.

Pulling the hair slightly before letting go, Hargrove grabbed the bottom hem of the boys sweater. He pulled it taught to ready the scissors to cut. “I ask questions and you answer. No answers and there is consequences.” He spoke harshly. The line was black and white memorized right off a paper. He opened the thick metal handle and let the scissors start cutting into the fabric of the sweater.

The boy groaned again as he pulled in his chains. They rang out in a pretty way as they held against his thrashing. “Stop it, Billy!” He repeated again like an idiot. 

Hargrove simply repeated asking him for his name and felt satisfaction as the sweater gave way more and more under him. He turned his scissors path up one arm, going all the way to the wrist, before he grabbed the boy’s other wrist and went down to the cut. The heavy sweater fell away limply to the ground.

Brown hair had become more messy and some even fell over his luminous brown eyes. His arms bent and twisted in the wrappings of the chain but one hand was still held roughly in place. The boy looked down at himself and back up in an almost pleading way.

Pleading. Hargrove has seen it but never like this.

Moving his hands down slowly, expertly, meaningfully, Hargrove dragged his big hands down the now exposed pale arms. He wanted to stop at every mark and every mole and memorize that skin but he couldn’t. Every minuscule ounce of fight was being used to power back another flash of that damned yellow room, covered in steam, and smelling so sweetly of a shampoo he couldn’t place the name of. But he could smell that shampoo now, clinging to his fingers that were in the chocolate mess of hair, and it was poison.

“Billy...,” the boy was breathing heavy. “Billy- William Hargrove!” He spoke the name like it was important. “That is your name! I came here to get you back, Billy!” His chest was rising and falling so hard. Hargrove let his fingers continue their exploration down those naked arms to a cotton t-shirt he wore under the sweater. It was black and thinned from being older, but the colors on it were still vibrant red. 'Motley Crue' spelt out in curved block lettering above a black and white line up of familiar faces. Faces just as familiar as the boy who was watching him almost expectantly.

Hargrove let his mind crack a little under that yellow light, “who,” he started to ask as he read the shirt over and over again. 'Too Fast For Love' printed in red text.

But he couldn’t defect from his orders. The whip would rip his skin. “What is your name!” He demanded again. He reverted back to the Mother language.

The boy whimpered this time, tears swelling up in is eyes. Maybe from the pain of his shirt being angrily crumpled in Hargrove’s hands, but more so from the pain of longing. “You know my name!” He pushed back, the chains noisy from the force. “Billy Hargrove, piece of shit just moved down to Hell, Indiana from Sunshine, California. You drive a blue Chevy Camaro that I always thought was so damn cool. You have a little sister that you say you hate but I know- I know! You don’t hate her even a little bit! You wear dirty band t-shirts, and big shitty boots, and have huge shitty curly hair... and you looked at me all the way... not just through me but really at me...” The boy’s words trailed off as his whimpers sprung from his eyes in tears. “You gave me a red and pink card this day last year with some dumb song lyrics on it that I still keep under my pillow when I sleep.”

Hargrove’s hand let go of his iron grip on the boy’s t-shirt as his mind flashed with that card. He knew it was cut in the shape of a heart and remembered exactly what song he wrote down to try and impress his crush. Like a wave crushing into him he could see the card completely. And his mind kept beating down the door to his conscious with more flashes of that yellow room.

“You know my name, Billy.” The boy was pleading again. His voice trembling but still somehow so strong it was making Hargrove furious. “Please, please, tell me you know my name?”

Hargrove opened his mouth and a small sound clawed at the back of his throat. The yellow was forming into a memory of this boy: shampoo on his hair and skin flushed hot in a shower, angry as he glared at him but with that anger something else. Something more wistful. Hargrove felt weak in a way that was so unlike the soldier he had spent eons training to become as he let the noise come out his throat.

“Steve,” he whispered, “Steve Harrington.”

The boy, Steve, rewarded him with an angelic melody of laughter. Laughter in a place like this.

“Finally!,” he sang through the tears.

Hargrove, no, Billy had to brace himself on something as his mind churned in pain. He reached out his hands and held onto Steve’s waist like a buoy in the ocean.

Steve was a mess of pleased noises as he leaned into his captor. Their foreheads pressed against each other, sweat thick from the small space, and it didn’t mater that it hurt. “Billy, Billy,” Steve kept repeating between joyful tears.

Billy looked up into those brown eyes, one red from a punch, and he wasn’t scared anymore about a whip some low life general thinks would hurt him. Nothing can hurt Billy as long as he has the blessing of these eyes on him.

“Steve Harrington,” he whispered in awe.

Then with a smile on his pretty face Steve leaned in the inch between their lips and kissed him. His lips were soft, and wet, and so warm to the touch Billy felt his own burning. His hands on Steve’s hips gripped tightly saying he never wanted to let go. The chains above their heads and down Steve’s body rattled a reminder of their situation. They both leaned away from the kiss as slow as they could, wishing to have more time.

“That’s our first kiss,” Billy let himself whisper softly into swollen red lips.

Steve chuckled low. His hands worked again in the chains and they both looked up. “I mean it’s kinda kinky. I think I like it, haven’t decided.” And even with tears in his eyes Steve was still so beautiful when he smiled.

Billy leaned in again and took another kiss, moving his lips with a hunger, wanting nothing more than to spend life just kissing into the taste of Steve Harrington.

But Steve pulled away with a rushed whisper. “Billy, I know, me too,” he groaned, “but we really need to get out of here.”

That was a tough decision, to continue kissing while Steve could do nothing about It sounded so very nice. But he was right as he mostly is and the need to escape from this prison was number one on the list.

Maybe Billy will save this idea until next Valentine’s Day. Now that he could finally remember the date.


End file.
